The Descent (8 page)

I
was playing solitaire with a worn, old deck of cards I’d found in a desk drawer, while Adair read, reclining on a bower of pillows on the floor. He broke from his reading to roll onto his back and cock his head in my direction, as though he was about to speak. I don’t think he was aware of how very appealing he appeared at that moment, his hair loose and leonine, the first few buttons on his shirt undone to give me a peek at his chest, and his jeans twisted so they were tight across his hips. He’d thrown an arm over his face to shield his eyes against the sun, but I could still see the lower half of his face, including his strong mouth, and I recalled how kissable it was. The sight of him was tempting.

Where’s the harm in a cuddle?
I thought, even though I knew we probably would not stop there. And if we were to indulge this once . . . if I leaned over him for a kiss and took the opportunity
to press full against his chest . . . if I reached down to undo the fly of his jeans, and unleash the passion that I knew was inside him . . . would I be lost to him for good? Could we stop again after having done the deed once?

But why not try it and see?
a voice in my head asked.
After all you’ve been through the past year, nursing your dying lover, it is time for you to be reborn. And you know this man; you’ve been in his bed a thousand times already. Stop thinking and do something about it. Go over and kiss him. Tell him you want him to take you right here, now. Tell him that you want him inside you, like the old days. Where is the harm?

I was about to abandon my cards and slither over to him when he said unexpectedly, “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” I said, already half risen to my feet.

“It has to do with the girls.”

Ah yes, the two women who had fallen for Adair and were sharing his bed. I had somehow forgotten about them in the heat of the moment.
There
was the harm in succumbing to temptation: it would be an entirely impetuous and selfish act with consequences that would harm
them
. A chill settled over me. It would be irresponsible to just do as we pleased. We both had responsibilities, after all: he, the girls; and me, rescuing Jonathan.

He sat up and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, oblivious to the thoughts I was battling. “It’s hard to explain, but ever since Robin and Terry arrived, I’ve had the feeling that something—strange—is going on. I’ve had no one to discuss it with, but now you’re here, I thought . . .” He shook his head, impatient with himself.

To be honest, I was annoyed that he’d brought up the girls. I felt as though I’d been doused with cold water, though it was undoubtedly for the best. I quickly regained my composure. “What is it?” I asked, pushing the cards aside. “Out with it. You can tell me.”

“All right. Just remember—you asked for it.” He hesitated. “The story of how we met, me and the girls, all that was true. They turned up on my doorstep, just as they said, but at the time, I sensed that there was something familiar about them. From the moment I met them, I knew that I’d seen them before. And then it dawned on me”—he flicked an unsteady glance my way a second time to make sure I was still following him—“they reminded me of a pair of sisters I knew centuries ago.”

“So? It was déjà vu; they reminded you of someone else. That’s not uncommon.”

“There’s more to it than that. You see, these sisters were witches.” He rushed the words out of his mouth as though he was embarrassed to say such a thing. “Their names were Penthy and Bronwyn. Robin is very much like Penthy. They have the same blond hair, both high-strung and flighty. Terry is just like Bronwyn, bossy and headstrong. They lived in the English fens land, out in the woods”—here he hesitated, avoiding my gaze—“in a giant tree. They admitted to being witches right away. They said they’d come from a long line of witches, and had been banished to the forest by the townsfolk, who had been afraid of their mother. They were something, those sisters. Beautiful, but a touch mad, I think. You could see it in their eyes.

“That night, I stumbled through the fens wood in the
dark, lost, sure I was going to fall into a bog and never be heard from again, when I heard them call me. Like sirens, they were. They wanted me to come down from my horse and spend the night with them. They tried to enchant me, feeding me wormwood tea and poppy-seed cake, and salads of nasturtiums and morning glories. You know me, Lanore; you know I have a strong constitution, but after a meal like that, I was stoned out of my mind and tame as a house cat. They waited until we were in bed to tell me that they were witches. I’d never been around women magic-handlers before. The great alchemists I’d met had all been men.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I grant you, there might have been a few female alchemists back then, though I would imagine that they’d have hidden their interest, as it wouldn’t have been to their advantage to be discovered, but more than one or two? I doubt it. And if there were, this very practice of keeping apart from other practitioners, the
great
practitioners, would have been their undoing. Because that is how you become great. Alchemy is not something you can master on your own. You must learn from the discoveries of others.

“I found the witch sisters’ magic disconcerting at first, but got used to it soon enough. Adepts called it ‘kitchen magic,’ the kind that’s passed from one generation to the next without formal training; it’s roundly thought of as primitive. The sisters didn’t want to hear that, of course. They were proud, and didn’t want to be judged or looked down on, but I had something they desperately wanted: a book of spells. That’s like the holy grail to them, and once they found out I had one on me, they came up with a plan to rob me. They tied me up, but I managed to escape.”

I settled close to him on the pillows, to share his sunny spot. “You couldn’t have been too pleased about that.”

“I didn’t appreciate it, no. I let my anger get the better of me, I’m afraid. I destroyed their home,” he admitted sheepishly. That sounded like the Adair of old, the Adair I knew, with a temper as explosive as a nuclear warhead. “And they swore to take revenge on me one day.”

“And you think these two girls are Penthy and Bronwyn, come back to make good on their threat?” I asked, dubious. “Reincarnation?”

I felt his weight shift restlessly beside me. “Maybe . . . why not? There’s something about this island that makes things happen. This place has a magical history, but I think there’s more to it than that. I think there’s a strong magical force here. That’s why Crowley’s disciple came here, that’s what drew me here. That force could have enabled the witch sisters to come back.”

“I suppose anything is possible,” I said, trying not to sound as uncertain as I felt. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that it’s true, that these witches have come back through Robin and Terry. Have they
done
anything to you, done anything malicious?”

“Not that comes to mind,” he admitted.

“What do you think they’d want from you?”

“I don’t know.” I could tell I’d vexed him by the dark look that clouded his face. “Look, I realize it sounds far-fetched, but I know how I feel and I think they’re Penthy and Bronwyn. But as to why they’ve come back . . . well, that part I don’t know
yet
, but whatever it is, it won’t be for the good,” he said, and sounded a bit slighted by my skepticism. “I grant you that I might have it all wrong. Maybe it’s just the island making me
feel this way. There’s something uncanny about it, almost as if it has a will of its own. Perhaps the barrier between this world and the next is at its thinnest here . . . or it’s positioned at a special confluence of stars. Or it’s a combination of magnetic forces, or a balance of elements found nowhere else, as legend has it. You’ll have to take my word for it. I can feel it.”

I didn’t want to tell him, but I could feel it, too, just as I could see there was something peculiar about the British girls. When they were in high emotion, it seemed they could make the air crackle and pulse and practically
warp
around them in a way that made the hair at the back of my neck stand up. No, I didn’t think Adair’s hypothesis was incorrect, but I also couldn’t allow myself to agree with him for fear that it might be true.

“You look exhausted,” he said, perhaps trying to change the subject so we wouldn’t be at odds any longer. “Why don’t you try to take a nap? I’ll be right here while you rest.”

I’d been awake for more than two days straight. I
was
exhausted, though I was used to going without sleep for long stretches at a time; I’d often had bouts of insomnia, or perhaps it was just that in this strange immortal form, we didn’t need sleep the way mortals did. Still, I could tell I was on the brink of impairment, of falling into that surreal state where you couldn’t trust your senses and it was difficult to collect your thoughts. I did as Adair suggested, and snuggled under the arm he wrapped protectively around my shoulders.

It came within seconds of falling asleep, as though the dream had been hiding in the closet or floating along the ceiling, waiting for me to close my eyes in order to pounce. I had no
sooner closed my eyes than I was dragged down, down, down into pitch blackness, quickly drawn along the now familiar stone passageway against my will.

I would’ve dug my heels in if I could, but it was impossible to resist, as though the dream had me by the arm and was pulling me forcibly to my destination. My head was clouded with the usual feelings of fear and dread, but beyond this I sensed something else was with me in the passage. There was a malevolent presence hovering over and around me, a spirit or spirits hurrying down the passage with me, excitedly feasting on my fear.

In a flash, I was at the hated door and it swung open at the slightest touch. I stepped inside and followed the same wandering torchlight from my earlier dreams. The room had been strangely reconfigured, furnished like a boudoir even though the walls were still made of the same filthy stone blocks and the floor was still packed dirt, loosely strewn with straw. Directly in front of me stood a handsome mahogany bed, one befitting a king’s bedchamber. Luxurious red-and-gold curtains hung from the four posters, the curtains drawn back to reveal gleaming white sheets betraying not a speck of dirt from the filthy surroundings. The sheets were rumpled: obviously, someone had recently been sleeping there. A voluptuous chaise longue upholstered in red velvet sat at the foot of the bed, and off to the side was a folding screen, three large panels covered with silk painted with a river scene. Items of clothing had been thrown haphazardly atop the screen, as though someone had undressed hastily. All the pieces were men’s clothes from the period of my youth: breeches, an embroidered turquoise waistcoat and navy frock coat, a long white stock tie still pleated
with wrinkles from when it had been wound around someone’s neck. No, not “someone’s” neck; I knew whose clothes these were. These clothes belonged to Jonathan.

I knew for certain, in that strange way of dreams, that Jonathan had been in this room not long ago. He had been in this bed, and he had been forced to undress. But where was he now? Then I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, a ripple of black disappearing behind the edge of the door. Jonathan; again, I knew with certainty that he was being taken somewhere. I knew this just the same as I knew I had to catch up to him, or lose him forever.

I hurried after them, Jonathan and his captor. I was led into a part of the passage I’d never been before, never having gone beyond the door in my previous dreams. The passage seemed to get narrower and narrower, until I could barely squeeze between the walls, and it twisted and turned so that I couldn’t see very far in front of me. Every once in a while I would turn a corner and see part of a figure—the point of an elbow, the heel of a foot—disappear as it turned a corner and was, once again, beyond my reach. The dream teased me, letting me get close enough to see a snippet of Jonathan, then it pulled him far away until all I could hear was the echo of footsteps up ahead. All the time, my chest squeezed tighter and tighter as I feared that if I awoke before catching up to him, I’d never have the chance to see or speak to him again, in this life or the next.

I spun around a corner in a headlong rush but somehow managed to have the presence of mind to realize that a shadow fell into the passage in front of me. Someone was coming for
me,
and I could tell by the gigantic form that it wasn’t
Jonathan. Sensing great danger, I quickly stepped back and slipped around the corner, pressing up against the cold stone blocks and holding my breath, praying not to be detected.

I could tell by the sound of footsteps that whatever had been coming for me had paused in the passage directly ahead. I listened for breathing but heard nothing. What could it be? So far in my dreams, I’d seen only Jonathan and a woman’s hand, which I assumed belonged to the queen of the underworld. But by the size of my pursuer’s shadow, it seemed unlikely to be her. Still, who else could it be? As unnerving as the whole thing was, this was exactly what I’d hoped for, wasn’t it, to confront the queen and ask her to release Jonathan? Perhaps I didn’t need to ask Adair to send me to the underworld. Perhaps I could confront the queen in my dreams and find peace for Jonathan and for myself.